“You missed morning skate.” He pats my shoulder. “And you barely managed to stay upright for warm up. You gonna make it through the game?”
We’re playing the Flint Flames. And AJ Williams is the toughest defenseman in the league. I’ve heard that if he checks you, you see literal stars. So far, he hasn’t managed to land one on me.
And he’s not starting today.
“I’m fine, Cap. Had the shits this morning. But I’m good now. Promise.” I tap my gloves to my temple. “Scouts honor.”
I need to be fine. My whole future is tethered to this scholarship. If I get benched, I’m fucked. I have to play my best, every single fucking game. No matter whose bed I’d rather be in. If things progress with Sigyn, I’m going to need to channel better self-restraint.
Starting to sound like Mom. Homework first. Hockey first. Then hobbies and funtime.
Ugh. So boring.
But she’s not wrong.
The game starts with a buzzing energy in my stomach I can’t tamp down. I don’t want to. And before I know it, we’ve played almost three full periods of hockey.
We’re up 3-2 in the final minutes of regulation time. Despite having scored one of our three goals, the coach skips over my line when calling for changes. I hover on the bench, poised and ready. He’s got to call my line, he just has to.
I’m ready. Eager. Hungry. And I’m freakin’ capable too.
When he finally calls our line, I explode over the boards like the bench is on fire.
Legs heavy, sweat streaming down the back of my neck, I refuse to give less than one hundred percent even just for one shift. Until that final horn blows, I’m going to give it my all.
When fellow rookie Justin Ashe sends the puck to the blade of my stick, I grin. I don’t tend to use the long curl-and-drag shooting motion that a lot of forwards use. Instead, my motion is extremely compact, sacrificing some of the power for disguise and the ability to release it quickly in a restricted area. Just like one of the top twenty-five players in Nashville Predators history, Filip Forsberg.
The shot goes wide, and I chase the puck into the corner. Someone’s breathing down my neck from the other team, but fuck if I know who. Don’t care, either. Right now, I only need to regain possession of the puck and do whatever I can to get it back into the net.
I’m a heat-seeking missile, the goal is my destination, and my target has been acquired.
Puck gets stuck at the edge of the rink, so I chip it with the toe of my skate. Frustration bubbles inside me. No time for stupid-ass delays when we have a game to win.
Let’s go, little puck.
Sometimes inanimate objects respond to being talked to, especially if you talk sweetly to them.
Someone shunts me from behind.
I slam into the plexi.
My legs go out from under me.
And everything goes black.
CHAPTER 6
Raffi
“Isn’t this his third concussion?”
“Second since school started.”
“I think he said he also had a couple in his last season in high school.”
“What if he doesn’t wake up?”
“Oof. What the fuck did you do that for?” Fabric rustles like someone is running their hand back and forth over something.
